
At first, this morning was like every other morning. I woke up, urinated for about 45 seconds, put on my robe, and headed downstairs. The house smelled of freshly brewed Folgers, and I was definitely looking forward to my first cup! But then I turned the corner and stopped dead in my tracks. It was Kenny G. In my house. “Why is Kenny G in my house?” I wondered.
He was playing saxophone, of course. Soprano saxophone. He was tootling and bleating as only Kenny G can. “Mr. G?” I asked. “Can you tell me what you’re doing here?” He didn’t respond. Instead, he raised his horn to the ceiling and held an F-sharp for, I kid you not, like three or four minutes. It was impressive feat, but I still wondered what he was doing there in my living room, and when he would leave.
I continued on to the kitchen. I poured myself a tall cup of Joseph and watched a little MSNBC. I like to watch the news in the morning. It helps me stay current on world affairs, politics, that sort of thing. I suspect I’m not alone. It was hard to concentrate, though, knowing Kenny G was in the room next door.
Suddenly, I remembered it was my wife Kathy’s birthday. “Shoot,” I said. “This is not a good look for me, forgetting to buy my wife a gift on her birthday!” But then I remembered that Kenny G was in our house playing the saxophone. Maybe that could be my gift. It was worth a shot.
I headed back upstairs, a steaming cup of Folgers in my hand, and went into the bedroom. “Happy birthday, Kathy,” I said. We embraced. I like to hug and kiss my wife on her birthday. I handed her that piping hot mug of Folgers, and she thanked me. “I’ve got a big surprise for you,” I said.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Follow me.”
I led her to the living room. “What’s that horrible sound?” she asked.
“Close your eyes.”
“No seriously, what is that?”

When she opened her eyes, she screamed. She hadn’t expected Kenny G to be standing there, in her house, surrounded by roses. “What the fuck is Yanni doing in our house?” she demanded.
“Kenny G.”
“What?”
“That’s not Yanni, that’s Kenneth G, the saxophone player. He’s well known.”
“Get him out of here,” said Kathy, and she stormed off.
So Kathy didn’t like her gift, which bummed me out, and I didn’t know how to get Kenny G to leave, which also bummed me out. What was I supposed to do? I’ve never had to kick a Grammy-award winning musician out of my house. What I did was I ended up closing the door to the living room. I just kind of left him there. My wife and I paid top dollar for our house, and there’s very little bleed in terms of sound. You’d never know Kenny G was in our house. Heck, he might still be in our house. I haven’t had the heart to check.
It’s evening now. The moon and stars are out. The crickets are singing their nighttime song. I pour Kathy another glass of chilled white wine and wonder if Kenny G is still in our house. And how did he get inside in the first place? Did we leave a door open? Did he hire a locksmith? I wonder if Kenny G is still in my house, I even wonder what song Kenny G is playing if he is, I wonder if Kenny G is still in our house.

Just eow